


The Exiles

by Lumivarjo



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-13 01:24:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18022148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumivarjo/pseuds/Lumivarjo
Summary: Beginning as a short story offered up to The Insatiable Ones as an entry in their competition to win a paperback copy of Coal Black Mornings by Brett Anderson, this (somehow) winning entry has become much more than that. At the request of my close friends and fellow Suede fans in TIO, the story goes on. Thank you for inspiring me.I was unsure of which warnings will apply so I'll simply state this: The Exiles contains nothing you wouldn't find in a Suede song.





	1. Just That Single Moment

**Author's Note:**

> The version posted here is modified from the original entry to fix spelling errors and add more to the story told. The base of it has only been somewhat modified in order to improve the flow.

   It really was just one of those days. A day of arguments, of disagreements, of slammed doors and smashed ceramics left scattered on the floor. Photographs lay strewn, the sounds of Berlioz clawing through the air so that the once beautiful 'Grande Messe des morts' would only bring bitter memories to the surface. All he could do was escape, and so he sits atop the wall out there by the edge of town, sky cold and gray as the people pass him by. No name to share, no story to tell. Well, not one they'd want to hear. The quaint, quiet drags of a borrowed cigarette, the blue and black flowers of rough times only recently, they're all he has, and they're all he needs.  
   "You can't keep doing this to yourself." A soft voice speaks to him like sunshine through the trees and he can't help but to crack a smile, pained though it may be.  
   "Don't see why not."  
   The voice moves into view. Fur coat and golden hair, face like trouble but the kind you'd want to have on a Friday night. "You keep doing it to yourself, we'll never get out of here."  
   His eyes lift from his radiant friend and he peers across at his tattered town, council houses, dog shit, and everything. "I suppose you're right." He mutters.  
   "I suppose I am."  
   Hopping off the wall, he takes the cigarette from his mouth and holds it out in offering with thin, bony hands. It's refused. A shrug follows and it's placed back between his lips. "We could leave now?"  
   His friend laughs, head shakes, but a smile was there. Genuine. "I haven't even got anything with me, you daft bastard."  
   "You have me!"  
   They laugh, everything is beautiful for just that moment. Just that single moment.  
   Seconds pass, perhaps minutes when the soft pitter-pattering of springtime rain filled their ears, him and his companion. They exchange glances after gazing up at the cloudy sky and nod in silent agreement; a firm but gentle grasp of his close friend's hand and they run for shelter together, their hastened movements echoed by the swiftly forming puddles on the age-old concrete underfoot as the rain grows heavier. It's not too long before they make it to a bus shelter, decrepit and graffitied by the youths of their town; a woman's smiling face is disfigured into a satirical Nazi guise, the brand name elegantly changed to 'ColGAY'. Empty cans are strewn about along with cigarette butts and chewed gum. An old man in a scuffed overcoat and a ragged hat frowns at both but doesn't say a word.  
   Pausing for breath in the corner of the shelter, he pulls his shabby denim coat closed and smiles, his cigarette long lost to the elements. "What now then?" Hand at his chest, he cranes his neck to peer at the timetable welded to the plexiglass shell of the shelter. "Next bus is in 10."


	2. The Swans

   The rain continues as it always does, each heavy drip in the torrent hitting hard against the double-glazed window, some working their way through the ceiling before crashing hard into an old pot placed down on the bare floorboards of the damp, decaying bedroom. Clothes are scattered across the floor, amongst them are remnants of the night before; several empty cans, a tossed ashtray, wrinkled clothes. Atop the clutter lies a fur coat. Condensation rolls lazily down the inside of the window, the edges of the glass fogged and obscuring the outside world.  
   "This was a terrible idea."  
   "And yours was better?" A quiet, muffled voice sounds from beneath the mound of sheets on the bed. "At least mine got us in from the rain."  
   Light footsteps across those old floorboards, a quiet creak. He kneels down and peels back the blanket to reveal a mess of golden-blond. "My idea could have had us away from this shithole."  
   "Away from this shithole yeah, Will, but we'd be destitute."  
   A wince as his name is said, and Will stands up, craning his slender neck to peer out the window. He doesn't say anything, simply watching the leaky old gutter across the street.  
   Scampering by, a scruffy gray cat breaks his line of sight and Will looks over to his dear companion. He doesn't say anything, simply watching as they stretch on the bed, eyes shut and hair in a mess.  
   Sitting up, blankets wrapped snugly around their shoulders, a smile is offered. "So are you going to just stand there staring at me, or are we getting breakfast?"  
   "Yeah, sure."  
  


* * *

  
   2:15pm and a scrambler speeds down the road with all the elegance and grace of a dying elephant. He's been outside for a while now, tearing through the damp streets and pulling wheelies in some self-satisfying attempt to impress those walking by. Will tisks as he always does, and pulls his jacket on. The scent of old leather hangs in the air for a moment. At least it's not raining anymore.  
   Leaving behind the remains of an overly greasy fry-up, scrambled eggs, and a shared pot of tea, Will and his dear companion leave the Gray Robin café and step out onto the cracked pavement. An old woman looks up at them from her place across the road, her stack of Big Issue being more than enough to cause people step around her, although her ragged appearance was doing a fine enough job of that.  
   Will looks over to her, scowling as he takes his friend's hand into his own. "When did it get like this?"  
   "Like what...?"  
   A nod is given towards the woman and Will begins to walk, followed closely by the soft rustling of that fur coat.  
   "Oh. Hasn't it always been this way?"  
   "It was better. Cleaner. Nowhere near this bad. Wasn't like this when I was a--"  
   "When you were a child? Will, you're only a few years older than I am and it's been this way as long as I can remember." His companion narrows their eyes but smiles. Sort of.  
   Will rolls his eyes and squeezes their hand lightly. "Stop reminding me."  
   Silence, or at least relative silence. The scrambler screams past them with another wheelie to grab people's attention. Once more it fails and the front wheel skids when it returns to the tarmac. Some swerving, but he rights himself quickly.  
   "Bollocks."  
   Will glances back at his friend.  
   "He didn't fall off."  
   "Jesus, Theo."


End file.
